To Paint With Red
by The Legend of Derpy
Summary: Medic never knew he was an artist. Medic also didn't know how excited he could get over a simple jar of blood and a certain Heavy.


The white coated being drifted over the tiled flooring like an anxious ghost, holding a jar of glorious red liquid ruby. The cool that radiated from the glass sent sensual chills through the doctor, and he shivered in what might of been distorted affection. The thing was gripped by its hips, which squeaked in pain as the man holding it caressed his precious possession's sides with his untrimmed fingernails. He had not taken the opportunity in weeks to cut the damn things, and though his patients were complaining of rather unpleasant internal bleeding during their daily open heart surgery, the heat of sudden battle and anticipation for this moment halted the clippers from beheading his lovelies.

The moon howled at moist blankets of sleeping dusk, and its blank stare swallowed up the Medic's movements quite excellently. It all created quite a lovely scene of morbid curiosity and blackness, and the German admired the current atmosphere. The only light source in the man's workshop, excluding the moon, was a small overhead light.

Archimedes perched on the light's base with a sick interest in its owner's next project. Yellow light bathed the bird's wings as shadows clawed beneath him, and the pet watched as Medic squeezed his ungloved fingers around the jar's edges slightly. The jar squirmed in annoyance and stubbornness, not willing to give up the chilled treasure it drank within. Carefully he managed to open his unique concoction bit by bit (as to not spill the precious fluid onto the bleached floor), and he managed to wrench the top off safely within a matter of minutes. Defeated, the jar top laid dejected among the Medic's tools, pouting in the rusted corner of a broken Ubersaw. A quick whiff of the stuff sprouted unique images in the doctor's head, fantasies of guns, metallic screeching, and hot lead. It was nothing like a whiff of Kritzkrieg fumes.

Inside him spawned memories of his team's Heavy.

It was easy enough to swipe the material during the large man's last operation, and the vital fluids had hummed a song of boredom in the Medic's fridge ever since. Since then, he had come into the possession of a rather large, white canvas that ate up a considerable amount of space in his tiny office. As he groped around his warped wooden desk for a paint brush, his trusty white dove jumped into the bottle of blood. Medic screeched.

"Uggh, no, Archimedes! Tvis iz not the right time for zhat!" He plucked the bird gingerly out of the jar and placed him on his desk, where the dove proceeded to trot scattered lines of bloody claw marks onto his owner's important papers: status reports, letters from his supervisors, hate mail from the red Scout. Medic paid no true attention, for it was doubtless that he did not care about his bird's affairs so long as he had obtained the object of his interests: a paint brush. Its tip stretching for the heavens, Medic proceeded to dip the brush into the jar. The German approached the canvas with a slight spring in his step, a sort of unspoken joy. A flick of his finger, and redness sneezed over the canvas.

Blood. Crimson, lovely blood. And it was splattered everywhere, waiting for him to mold it into glory...

_Splatters, patterns, shapes. The grotesque mess took form into intricate designs, a weapon of mass destruction. Yes, it was turning out quite lovely, this painting of his. His paintbrush bucked underneath his fingers, questioning the sanity of the Medic's actions._

_A square jaw, boxed and curved in the fashion that Medic saw fit. His lovely creation was birthing under his trembling fingers, a beautiful sight. The man's knees started to buckle. A mere result of old age, an insane day at work, or, dare he say it...love? Nein, it couldn't be. Correct?_

_Was it all a delusion, the tightening of his sickened heart? Or was it a twisted mirage, burned into his head by a crazed God? It mattered not, for his painting was finished. Homosexual or not, the Medic had finished his masterpiece._

A monstrous man shadowed the medic with a waft of iron scent, his eyes staring kindly at the back of the room. He was flattened against the canvas, captured like a prisoner. Medic's body was slowly crumpling under the pressure of pride and sleep, and the moon had started to dip under the Sun's angry command. Before clicking off his light and going to bed, he made a decision, quite a shocking one by his Nazi stained standards. He did not know what force drove him, but the Medic found himself drawn to the bloody painting. He swallowed. Standing on the tips of his toes, he reached up into the air with his dry lips and aimed perfectly for the Heavy. The man kissed the painting's meaty lips, content with the sweet tang of blood that entered his mouth as a result.

"Good night, _mein Liebling_."


End file.
